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CHAPTER 65
Hunting Valley, Ohio
THERESA MAY ALCOTT REMOVEDthe gardening apron she wore, went to a sink, and washed her hands.
“Can you finish up for me, Arthur?” she asked. “I’m going up to the house with Chief Stone for a cup of tea. Shall I send some down for you?”
Arthur was still regarding Bree suspiciously, but he nodded. “Tea would be nice. And don’t worry, I’ll have everything ready to put in the ground come morning.”
“Seven sharp. I have meetings from nine on.”
“Seven sharp, Terri.”
Bree followed her out of the greenhouse and listened as Alcott chanted out the vegetables and herbs that would be “accepted into the ground” the following morning.
“How do you eat it all?” Bree asked.
Alcott led her out of the garden and up a short rise to thehouse. “What we don’t eat is donated to multiple food banks and school-lunch programs in the Cleveland area. Nothing goes to waste. And everything’s organic.”
“Was this always an interest of yours? Gardening?”
“My mother was a gardener, but I hated it as a girl. It was only over time that I came to appreciate the power and fulfillment of helping to nurture something to life.” The billionaire said it was similar to her cattle ranch outside Jackson. “The ranch was my late husband’s passion,” she said, opening a rear door to the house. “He made me see the beauty in being part of the greater food cycle.”
They entered a mudroom, where Alcott kicked off her rubber boots. Bree slipped off her sneakers and padded after her down a short hallway that emerged into a beautiful, immaculate, yellow-and-white kitchen.
A woman in her forties sat at the table. She put down herPeoplemagazine. “Terri?”
“Tea, please, Marie. In the office?”
“Coming up.”
Alcott motioned for Bree to follow her down another short hall to an expansive office. The desk was huge and cluttered. Several computer screens glowed on and behind it.
“My reckless command center,” Alcott said.
“Looks like you have a lot on your plate.”
Alcott smiled and pointed her to one of two overstuffed chairs flanking a small cocktail table. “You have no idea.”
“You’re probably right.”
The billionaire took the other chair, sighed. “You must think me cut off from the realities of life.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Alcott. You seem surprisingly genuine.”
“Call me Terri, and bless you for that. It took years in therapyand more than a few monthlong retreats in India after Gil—my husband—died for me to get to this point.”
She chuckled wistfully. “And now to your loose ends,” she said, sobering. “What has brought you to my greenhouse door, Chief Stone?”
“Tell me about your granddaughter.”
Alcott’s face fell. “Olivia. Olivia May. My younger daughter’s second child.”
The older woman proceeded to tell a story similar to the others Bree had heard: Duchaine scouts luring seventeen-year-old Olivia into a trap. The promises of fame. The excitement of moving to New York. The rejection. The plastic surgeries. The mounting debt. The sex trafficking.
“All the things you described in your report,” Alcott said. “Olivia could have come to her mother or me for money. But by then, shame had set in and she was using drugs. When we found out what was happening, she could not face us. She intentionally overdosed, leaving us a letter that described her ordeal.”
Marie came into the room carrying a tea service and a basket of cookies. When she’d gone and Bree had had a sip of tea, she said, “So you hired Bluestone and me to investigate at that point?”
